Friendship
by Tor Raptor
Summary: A Fragile Ficlet: During the fight against leukaemia, during the recovery, and during the aftermath, Sherlock relies on his friends. And sometimes, they rely on him.
1. Guidance

**I told myself that I'd wait until after Norbury is finished to post another Fragile Ficlet, but certain circumstances made me change my mind. My cousin was recently diagnosed with B-cell lymphoma, so my mind immediately came back here. This is one of a series of standalone one-shots that I'll be lumping together, so the chapter count will probably remain undetermined. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!**

"It's cancer."

The words reverberated through her head like the sound of a resonating gong. She'd been half-expecting this news, but had also clung to that hope there was something else with identical symptoms and a superior prognosis. But no amount of hope could change the inevitable.

Sally Donovan's father had cancer. He'd been sick a few times before this, but it always happened to be something benign and easily treatable. Sally and her mother had started to believe he was immortal, but this disease still managed to sneak through whatever force had kept him going all these years. When he first called Sally to tell her about his symptoms—she didn't know why he did this, Sally was not and had never been a doctor, she was a sergeant at Scotland Yard—she didn't think anything of it. A few weeks later her mother rang and said those fateful, dooming words: "It's cancer."

They'd talked about proposed treatment options; her father had decided to go through with chemo and everything the oncologist had suggested as his best course of action. But he told Sally he was scared. Growing up, she had thought her father was incapable of emotion because he was so good at disguising it, yet he'd just admitted to her his fear and worry. She put it off as a result of the daunting diagnosis and the even more daunting treatment course.

Frankly, Sally was scared too. Nobody wanted to see their loves ones ill, and this was the first time in her adult life she would experience something like that. Well… she'd seen the effects of cancer before, but it hardly counted as a loved one. What would it have been like if she'd known him better, as more than the arrogant, annoying genius who often crashed her work site? How would she have handled it if he'd meant more to her? One way or another, she was about to find out what it was like when someone close to you went through that kind of ordeal.

She wanted to offer her father some consolation, assure him that it would be alright, but she had minimal knowledge on this topic and didn't want to give him false information—or worse, false hope. But if there was one thing Sally Donovan could do, it was obtaining information she lacked. Before saying goodbye, she told her father she'd call him back in a few days once she'd done some research.

She began by reading whatever she could find online about small cell lung cancer, but about three articles in she realized that this was exactly what her mother and father would've done as soon as they received the diagnosis. It's what anyone would do after being given such information, and her parents were no different. If she wanted to offer them something they couldn't get elsewhere, she needed a primary source, someone or something that could provide the nitty-gritty, personal details that scholarly articles left out.

The first thought that popped into her head was entirely unfeasible. She couldn't go crawling to them on her knees begging to be let in on the secrets of the worst experience of their lives. But, did she have any other options? She didn't know anyone else who'd suffered the way her father was about to. He was her only option for a firsthand perspective. If she wanted to assuage her father's worries—and her own—she'd have to talk to Sherlock.

~0~

She didn't go straight there. She started by running this idea by Lestrade, because he was as close to the situation as anyone she knew and she felt comfortable asking for his opinion. She explained her father's situation, and he immediately expressed his sympathies. It felt strange, hearing people say they were sorry for you. She was used to being sorry for victims' families, not the other way around. She supposed it was a role she must get accustomed to.

"The thing is, boss, I want to be able to help him through this, to provide for him what a library book or online article cannot, but I don't know how."

"And you think I do?"

"Not exactly. I want to talk to someone about it, but I'm not sure if my inquiries would be well-received or not." She was dancing around the point, she knew, but for whatever reason she couldn't bring herself to say directly whose help she wanted.

"Do I know this person?" Lestrade must've known who she was talking about, but he was humoring her. She relented, and gave him a straight answer.

"Yes. Is it acceptable if I go to Sherlock with a question like that?"

"Sally, I don't know what to tell you. I trust your judgment and your ability to tell if you've overstepped."

"But you know him better than I do, would he be willing to talk to me? I know we aren't exactly best mates." Their relationship had thawed since his illness, and even more since Sally had witnessed his breakdown after that nosebleed, but he still held her at arm's length. And she couldn't blame him.

"True. I can't give you a definitive answer. I cannot read Sherlock's mind—I think only John Watson can do that—but from what I do know, I'd venture to guess he'd be open to talking to you."

"You don't think he'd immediately shut me down?"

"No. He's not like that—not anymore, at least," Lestrade defended. True, at one time Sherlock probably would have slammed the door in her face, but he'd undergone quite the metamorphosis since then. Sally then thanked Lestrade for his input and started mentally outlining her questions.

~0~

Sally debated exactly how to go about this. She considered going through John Watson first, explaining the entire situation to him as she'd done to Lestrade and asking if he thought Sherlock would be open to assisting her. But if she did that, she'd then have to repeat the whole thing again to Sherlock, a none-too-enticing concept. Despite Lestrade's assurance that she wouldn't be automatically rejected, she still feared that he would refuse to speak to her at all about such matters. Her planned line of inquiry did seem a tad invasive. But what did she have to lose? Worst case scenario: she left without learning anything and potentially fell victim to a string of the detective's worst insults. Nothing she hadn't endured before.

She bit the bullet and texted Sherlock directly: "Are you home? I need to talk to you about something."

"Case?" came his almost immediate reply. Lestrade was always the one to contact him if Scotland Yard needed any help solving a crime; Sally had never done such a thing. But neither had she ever sent him a text message related to anything else, so it was a reasonable enough assumption.

Instead of answering his question, she reiterated her own: "Are you home?" If she told him it wasn't for a case, odds were he'd ignore her entirely. But she didn't want to reveal the reason for her visit so early.

"Yes," he answered. Needing no more confirmation, Sally made her way to 221B Baker Street. She doubted they'd ever had a client quite like this—and yes, she considered herself a client. She was seeking help from Sherlock Holmes, just not for the same reason most people did.

~0~

Mrs. Hudson let her in with a chirpy greeting and a smile, which Sally gladly returned. She eased her way upstairs and knocked gently on the door to the living room. She hadn't been here in ages, and she wondered if things had changed at all since her last visit. John opened the door and led her into the living room. There was no sign of Sherlock, and Sally raised an eyebrow at John as a means of asking for his whereabouts.

"Probably getting dressed," John remarked. "We haven't been up to much lately; he's desperate for a case. I don't suppose you came to propose one?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid," she admitted.

"Then why exactly are you here?"

"If it's all right with you, I'd rather just say it once," she said. The more times she spoke the words aloud, the more concrete it became in her head. Fortunately, John didn't press her for further explanation.

"John!" Sherlock's voice from the other room sounded. John excused himself and made his way over to the room down the hall. What the detective was doing in there that required John's assistance, Sally wasn't sure she wanted to know. Now, she found herself alone in their living room. Glancing around, her gaze immediately fell on the blanket Lestrade had gotten Sherlock so long ago. It had faded somewhat and showed thorough signs of use, she was glad to notice. On one of the walls hung what looked like a piece of modern art: it showed a series of photographs beginning with a pinkish white mesh that seemed to gradually darken and melt into the surface beneath it until the entire thing appeared more uniform and scaly. She asked herself why Sherlock and John would own such a thing, but then her brain made the connection, a connection which was only cemented when the subject of the photographs finally emerged from the other room.

Sally had long ago gotten used to Sherlock, but it struck her as more than a little odd that they had documentation of the healing process strung up on their living room wall. She must've failed to hide her unease, because Sherlock easily picked up on it.

"What's got you so on edge?" he questioned, positioning himself dramatically in his black armchair.

"Nothing, just admiring your choice of décor," she commented, gesturing to the picture in question.

"Oh, that? Birthday present from John. Now, why are you here?" Sally took a moment to process his explanation of the photographs before she could consider his blunt question. She knew he was expecting and hoping for a case, but she had nothing of the sort to offer. What she had to say would undoubtedly make both Sherlock and John uncomfortable, something she was loath to do. But she'd come all this way, and she wouldn't leave without at least trying.

"I need help," she began.

"With…?" Sherlock prompted. He had his hands folded as he usually did, and Sally felt her gaze linger just a little too long on the missing fingers of his right hand.

"My father," she continued.

"What did he do?" Of course, he would immediately leap to the conclusion that he'd committed or been framed for some sort of crime and Sally wanted his help getting him off charges.

"Nothing."

"Then why do you need help with him? Donovan, my skill set does not include father-daughter counseling. If those are your needs, perhaps John would be more able to assist—"

"He has cancer," Sally blurted out. Now that it was out there, part of her wanted to take it back. She watched Sherlock pale three shades whiter and felt her own feet go cold. "I just…I wanted some firsthand perspective. So I could tell him what to expect and how to deal with it, and you're…the only person I know who might be able to provide that."

She watched him mull this over for ages, all the while regretting coming here in the first place. He and John were so far past this, and she just made them return to it. It wasn't fair. "I—I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I shouldn't have come." She made to stand up and leave before the situation could become even more awkward, but Sherlock held out a hand to stop her.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked earnestly.

"Well…I'm not sure. I was hoping you could tell me what you found important, or things you wish you would've known in the beginning. I just want to make this a little easier for him."

"And I commend you for that. He's lucky to have you. I've been told many times that a support system is invaluable."

"You've been told?" John asked, eying Sherlock incredulously. A non-verbal sparring match ensued, and Sherlock amended his previous statement:

"I…know from experience…that a support system is invaluable. It would seem your father already possesses such a thing, so there's little point in my discussing its vitality."

Sally brought out a notepad she'd brought and jotted it down anyway. "Of course there's a point. If you hadn't told me that, I might've abandoned him," she joked, though she would never consider such a thing. At least her jest earned her a half-smile from the detective.

"Take all the prescribed side-effect medications," John interjected. "If not for his sake, then for your mother's, or whoever's going to be taking care of him most. This one," he pointed at Sherlock with his thumb, "refused half the time, and not only increased his own misery, but mine as well." Sally dutifully wrote this down, knowing her father might just be stubborn enough to refuse—or ignorant enough for forget.

"If I'm not mistaken, Donovan came here seeking to pick my brain, not yours," Sherlock told John. Sally let them squabble, amused at their friendly antics. When they came to crime scenes, Sherlock was always so focused that he didn't waste any time joking with John. She'd never really gotten a glimpse of their dynamic outside of Scotland Yard until now.

"Then please, offer her some of your signature wisdom," John invited.

"If possible, don't let him go to chemo alone. One—it's boring, two—sometimes you feel sick enough that you really shouldn't be in charge of getting home on your own, and three—it can be really daunting, especially the first few times."

Sally was somewhat shocked he'd been willing to reveal all of that right off the bat, but she listened raptly and wrote down some of the things she thought would apply to her father. She quickly glanced at John while Sherlock spoke, and saw him nodding along. So this must be true, not something Sherlock 'deduced' would be things a cancer survivor might say in this situation. She was glad she hadn't backed out of coming here; she was already learning even more than she'd hoped she would.

"Thank you," she said earnestly. If she left with nothing more than that, she'd consider this endeavor a success, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"After a while, start to keep it warmer inside than you normally would. A lack of body hair coupled with likely weight loss can really freeze you, and sometimes extra layers aren't enough." She saw him involuntarily shiver, and wondered if John had been forced to agree to upping the heat in 221B.

"But not so much that every healthy person boils alive," John grumbled. They met eyes, and Sally bore witness to yet another non-verbal conversation. There must've been an incident regarding the temperature that they both remembered vividly. She diligently wrote this down too, still relieved and a bit surprised that Sherlock was so open to talking to her about this.

"Thank you," she repeated.

"Is your father bald?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Not yet," she answered. Hair loss was the most well-known side effect of chemotherapy, and she wondered exactly what Sherlock would have to say on the topic.

"I recommend shaving it before it can start to fall out. Reaching up to scratch an itch on your head and coming away with a fistful of hair can be quite distressing. At least for me, it felt better to be able to dictate when it came off instead of waiting for it to wither away. After it's all over, it'll eventually grow back, but I've heard sometimes it has a different texture than before."

Sally thought about the fact that it had been years since Sherlock finished chemotherapy, yet he was still bald. She wasn't exactly sure why that was the case, and a part of her wanted to know. But, of course, that wasn't really an appropriate question, and she didn't want to upset Sherlock by saying something insensitive when things had been going so well. She opened her mouth to ask another, unrelated, question, but Sherlock beat her to it.

"Yes, I can grow hair now, but I shave it," he explained. "It doesn't grow on the grafted section, so the part that does grow looks hopelessly out of place."

"How did you—?"

"You were being rather obvious," he interjected. "Trust me, what you see right now is a big improvement on the half-hair look. But do make sure your father has plenty of hats for wintertime; one doesn't appreciate the insulation that hair provides until it's gone."

Sally stared dumbfounded for a moment, unable to comprehend Sherlock's blunt honesty. She had never seen the detective so forthcoming with personal information. She still remembered when he'd go nearly a week without food or sleep and lie about it so he could continue working on whatever case. She also knew there'd been a multitude of minor to major injuries he'd acquired chasing down suspects that had been cleverly disguised until they could no longer be ignored. The Sherlock she thought she knew was an immensely private person who hated to be seen showing any sort of weakness. Evidently, she no longer knew the real Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you all right?" John asked her. She shook herself, realizing she'd been staring into space for much too long.

"Yes," she replied curtly. She glanced back over everything she'd written down and thanked both of them again for their advice.

"One more thing," Sherlock smiled in preparation for whatever he was about to say, "As Lestrade will tell you, there are a multitude of clever tee shirts out there for cancer patients. Sometimes a good laugh is far better than even the good drugs."

She didn't ask what he meant by the 'good drugs,' though she assumed it meant anything that wasn't chemo—and not something illegal. Briefly, she let her thoughts wander to how his status as a former drug addict affected the doctors' approach to pain control. She hoped he hadn't been denied stronger medication because of the potential for relapse. Sherlock may be an arrogant prick sometimes, but he didn't deserve to be denied relief at a time like that.

"Half the time you refused the 'good drugs' because you said they clouded your mind," John countered.

"Yes, but you turned them up on me—without my permission, may I add—and I was doped out long enough to figure out they weren't holding back in their prescriptions."

"Of course, you would know."

"Yes, I would know. I'm a chemist."

"That's not why you know."

Sally knew this argument probably wouldn't conclude as swiftly as the others had, so she stood and silently made for the door. They were so occupied with each other that they barely noticed her departure. Her goodbye fell on deaf ears, and she descended the stairs and returned to the busy sidewalk outside the flat. She folded up her notes and shoved them in her pocket, eager to share what she'd learned with her father. As reluctant as she'd been to come here, she was twice as relieved she'd mustered the courage to go through with it. Not only had she learned about the aftermath of cancer and chemo, but she'd learned a lot about Sherlock Holmes.

 **Going back to read over this, I realize I made John and Sherlock bicker like an old married couple. And it doesn't even seem out of character...**

 **Anyway I have several more ficlets planned. Both Fraternity and Fred will be gaining a chapter. This story has two more unrelated chapters (one of which is half-written, the other of which is just an idea so far). And there will be at least one more standalone, almost certainly more because my brain keeps coming back to this universe.**

 **I write based on the ideas that my mind conjures up and hope that you all enjoy them, so I just thought I'd say that I'm open to suggestions if there's something specific you'd like to see me write, whether it's related to Fragile or not. Thanks!**


	2. September

**Though this is posted as the second chapter of Friendship, it is not a continuation of the first chapter. It's just another ficlet related to friends.**

 **I wrote 2/3 of this story a very long time ago and abandoned it to work on other projects. I only recently remembered I ever started it and unearthed the document. Let's just say I was pleasantly surprised with how much I'd actually gotten done and how little revising it needed. I think I've mentioned before that these Fragile ficlets range widely from pure fluff to hardcore angst, and this one definitely falls under pure fluff. Stay tuned afterwards for a sneak peak at my next full-length story "Sole Mates."**

September:

September was leukaemia and lymphoma awareness month. Of course it never received as much attention as October did for breast cancer, but it was just as important, especially for those who'd been personally affected by the disease. Sherlock himself refused to acknowledge what he considered 'a frivolous way to relegate a disease which affected people all months of the year to only one,' but John felt some sense of duty both as a doctor and the friend of a survivor. He didn't parade around with an orange ribbon pinned to his shirt demanding anyone who would listen to donate to whichever charity, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn't hesitate to share what he knew.

That particular September, Lestrade pitched an idea to John and several Scotland Yard employees. At first, John thought he was joking, but when his laughter was met with a glare, he knew the DI meant it. On second thought, it actually seemed quite considerate. And a tad funny. So he agreed. Sherlock knew nothing of their plot, and John intended to keep it that way.

On the first day of the month, he asked Sherlock if he even remembered why September was important. He wouldn't put it past him to delete the information. However, Sherlock answered bluntly and correctly: "This is the month where people are supposedly more considerate and understanding of people like me, and all the charities and research foundations come out of the sewers with those advertisements featuring sad, bald children and whatever celebrity is currently on a self-improvement kick. Remind me again why they insist on giving each type of cancer a month as if it's a birthstone?"

"Because most human brains can't handle being aware of all types of diseases for all months of the year," John explained, somewhat appalled by Sherlock's cynical-though-entirely-accurate description of the occasion.

"Makes sense." Sherlock shrugged and returned to whatever it was he was doing on his laptop. He'd spent the entire morning in the same spot on the couch, butchery blanket tucked around him, typing away. John still hadn't quite gotten used to the strange, stunted rhythm of Sherlock's new typing strategy. He refused to use only his index fingers, determined to somehow make it work. For the most part, he was fine, but it was easy to tell when a word had certain letters in it because the pace remarkably slowed. While one and a half fingers seemed like a relatively minor loss, it was shocking the effect it could have on such simple tasks.

Seeing as Sherlock was engrossed in whatever-it-was, John texted Lestrade, telling him the plan was on, and received the go-ahead a few minutes later. John walked into their bathroom and searched for the object he needed. When he didn't find it, he relented to asking Sherlock.

"Hey Sherlock?" he called.

"What?" the detective grumbled back.

"Where do you keep your razor?" John knew that Sherlock might deduce what he was about to do right then and there, but evidently he was too distracted to put the pieces together.

"Middle drawer."

"Thanks." John didn't expect a 'you're welcome,' and he didn't get one. But he opened the middle drawer and found what he was looking for. Staring at the razor lying innocently among the other things in the drawer, John had second thoughts. Was he really about to do this? And if he did, would it be appreciated? Or would Sherlock think he was making fun of him? Only one way to find out. He made sure the door was locked behind him and started shaving.

~0~

When he finished, he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize himself. He was reminded of the first time he saw Sherlock after the surgeons implanted the Ommaya reservoir. He hadn't been able to handle the shock, spewing his guts out in the nearest bathroom and collapsing to the floor. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't react similarly.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and unlocked the door. He stepped into the hallway and made his way slowly towards the living room. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself, so he grabbed a newspaper from the kitchen and brought it with him to his armchair. Before he could even sit down, the sounds of Sherlock working abruptly turned to silence.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating," Sherlock stated, gaze fixed firmly on anywhere-but-John.

"Nope," John chirped, exaggerating the 'P' sound.

"Dreaming?"

"Nope," he repeated. "This is for real."

"Dear God, why? Is this a punishment?"

"No, it's not a punishment. Why would you think that?"

"It feels like a punishment," Sherlock remarked, finally returning his gaze to look John in the eye.

"It's not a punishment!"

"Then please tell me what it is before I jump to any more conclusions that might haunt me."

"It's September."

"That is not an explanation; that is a statement of a fact of which I am well aware. You asked me this morning about September, and I told you. Did you not like my answer?"

"Your answer was fine, although a tad too naturalistic for my taste. I think there are people that genuinely want to help; it's not always a self-improvement kick."

"It's usually a self-improvement kick," Sherlock countered.

"Doesn't matter. Famous faces are successful at getting donations, donations that help people."

"You still haven't explained why you shaved you head. And 'it's September' is not an adequate explanation.

"I decided it was something I could do to show my support. If you have a problem with that—it's too late now," John teased.

"I don't even recognize you. If we were lost on a crowded street, you would literally be the last person I check to see if it's John. Even afterwards, I'd probably throw you back and keep looking."

"Now, that's not very nice."

"Neither was doing _that_ without consulting me first." John was worried. Sherlock seemed legitimately upset with what he'd done; that was not the reaction he'd hoped for. Ideally, he thought Sherlock would be amused.

"You would rather I have come to you and asked, 'Hey Sherlock, mind if I shave my head?' Seems a bit contrived."

"No. I'd have rather you not done this at all."

"Do you find it offensive?" John asked concernedly. Of all the possible reactions, Sherlock taking offense to his gesture was the last one he wanted.

"No. I'm just a little… put off. You barely even look like you, and it's weird," Sherlock admitted.

"Now you know how I felt."

"Unfortunately, I do. However, I had very little choice in the matter. The hair was coming out whether I wanted it to or not. The same cannot be said for yours."

"Maybe I just wanted to try bald, since you seem to make it work so well."

"I must admit, it's rather convenient."

"My head feels naked," John confessed.

"Welcome to my world. Although, a good portion of my scalp can't feel anything at all." While John could match him in baldness, he would never be able to mimic the extensive scarring. Not that he wanted to. Some people lost limbs or organs to cancer and its results; Sherlock lost skin, hair follicles, and nerves of the infected portion of his scalp. That was something John could never fully commiserate with. "Don't ask to borrow any of my hats," Sherlock said. "You brought this upon yourself."

"Fair enough," he relented.

"Can I have some of the hair?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John wasn't sure he heard him properly.

"Your hair. Can I have some of it?"

"Why?"

"To look at under the microscope. I'll memorize it so I'll know if any hairs I see in the future may belong to you."

"Okay," John relented. It wasn't like he had any use for it. He fetched Sherlock a stray lock that hadn't been disposed of along with the others. "Do you want me to ask anybody else for theirs?" John asked with half of a laugh.

"This wasn't just you." Sherlock sounded not only surprised as he stated this, but afraid.

"It was Lestrade's idea. A couple blokes from the Yard did it too."

"Greg started this…this conspiracy."

"It's not a conspiracy. He thought it would be a neat way to show our support for September. Of course we haven't endured what you did, but this is a painless way for us to be able to empathize just a little bit more."

"Painless? John, it looks like you nicked yourself at least three times." He was right. John wasn't used to shaving anything but his face; he was unused to the curves of the crown of his head, and he had drawn blood once or twice in the process.

"I haven't had the practice you have. For my first time, I think I did pretty well."

"Well enough. Better than whoever did mine the first time. They managed to poke a hole right through my skull."

"Is that an Ommaya reservoir joke?" John hadn't heard Sherlock make light of anything so closely related to his treatment before. It was a little unsettling, while also amusing at the same time.

"Yes. Brilliant of you to catch on."

"I'm looking forward to not having to wash my hair for a bit," John admitted. It never took him long, but not having to do it gave him a sense of liberation.

"It seems nice. But when you step into the shower for the first time, be prepared for unfamiliar sensation," Sherlock warned.

"What do you mean?"

"Your scalp isn't used to being pelted with water directly. There's been a cushion of hair there for almost your entire life."

"I never really thought about it."

"Neither did I until my head felt like it was being pelted by thousands of tiny hailstones."

"Duly noted." Now John wasn't so much looking forward to showering without hair.

~0~

For the first time ever, John saw Sherlock hesitate to rush over to Scotland Yard after Lestrade called him for help. Not because he feared the case wouldn't hold his interest, but because he feared what he might find among his coworkers. "Sherlock, you've never said no to a case like this as long as I've known you. Don't start now," John told him sternly. "They have no idea that you already know what they did for you. Don't ruin their fun."

"I'm already a convicted fun-ruiner," Sherlock retorted. John silenced him with nothing more than a look. Reluctantly, he followed John out the door and down the stairs. Outside, the chilly air nipped at John's now-bare head. Sherlock, who had donned the navy blue cap Molly had given him for his birthday years ago, smirked at him.

"Hey, I'm new at this," John defended. He gritted his teeth and hoped Sherlock would hail a cab sooner rather than later. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait too long. Before they walked through the doors at the Yard, Sherlock removed the hat and shoved it into a pocket of his coat.

"Wouldn't want to draw attention to myself," he remarked ironically.

"At least act a little surprised when you see Lestrade," John pleaded. "This was all his idea, and I wasn't supposed to tell you about anyone else who was doing it." Sherlock didn't deign to offer John a verbal reply, just nodded his head stiffly. Lestrade met them halfway down the hallway to his office.

"Thank goodness you're here," he said. John had to commend Sherlock on his performance; he looked genuinely shocked to see a bald Greg Lestrade. Actually, knowing that someone had shaved their head and seeing the aftermath were two very different things. "What's wrong?" Lestrade questioned, feigning ignorance.

"You always say I make you want to tear your hair out." Sherlock smirked at his own joke. "I didn't think I'd ever actually drive you that crazy." A few other men walked behind Lestrade on their way out, also bald-headed. They pretended not to notice the current conversation between the DI and the consulting detective. "Them too?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade nodded. "What exactly is the point of all this? There hasn't been a lice infestation, has there?"

"No." The DI shook his head. "It's September."

"Ah, yes. September. John's been quite relentless in his interrogation about the significance of this month."

"Calling it an interrogation is a bit of a stretch," John interjected. "But I refused to let you ignore it like you ignore everything else: we don't have a king, the Earth goes around the sun, and September is leukaemia awareness month."

"Okay, only one of those things is even of mild importance to me. And while I appreciate the thought, really I do, I fail to understand why so many of you agreed to this. Half of those people that just walked by, I've never even spoken to."

"That doesn't mean they don't know who you are," Lestrade reminded him. "You're somewhat of a celebrity, especially within these walls."

"And…?"

"They wanted in. I mentioned it at a meeting, asked for a show of hands who would participate, and they all did."

"Why?"

"Because they care," John explained. "You may fail to notice it more often than not, but people around here genuinely care about you. They know they'd be lost without their consulting detective, so they decided to demonstrate that." Pensively, Sherlock nodded. John could practically see the gears turning in that brilliant brain of his, the same brain that failed to understand why a few near strangers would shave their heads for him. In reality, it was a small price to pay for everything that Sherlock had done over the years for Scotland Yard. He'd gotten them out of rather a lot of tight spots and helped them meet rather a lot of deadlines.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to get it. He blushed when some of the guys who'd shaved their heads glanced his way, but he didn't glare menacingly as John had feared he might. Despite the initial impression of the case's difficulty level, he happily solved it within hours, calling everyone involved an idiot. John knew he wasn't too preoccupied if he expressed his disdain for the intelligence of Scotland Yard employees.

On the way home, Sherlock surprised John by asking the cabbie to take them, not back to Baker Street, but to the nearest fabric store. "Why would we go there?" John asked.

"We have some orange ribbons to make."

 **Okay, advertisement time. Anyone who enjoyed this series, particularly the original 'Fragile,' should find my next work to be right up their alley. Anyone who didn't enjoy this series...why are you here at the end of the chapter? Anyways, I am overly excited to begin sharing this next work. It has many similar themes to Fragile, but it goes deeper on all of those and includes some new ones. I know that sounds vague, but I don't want to give too much away. I will, however, provide the summary:**

 **He _hates_ the stump. Not just for the obvious physical hassle and disability, but for everything it represents. He is less than whole, a mere part of a man. It represents everything he has lost in the rough course of his lifetime, a battle he ultimately lost. **

**What will it take for him to finally accept it?**


End file.
